Corona Borealis
by Werecat99
Summary: The story of Ariadne from a different angle.


**A/N:** This is part of an original story, but it's also the retelling of a Greek Myth from a different perspective.

A necromancer summons a spirit, and Ariadne's soul comes forth. Here is what she has to say.

****

**Corona Borealis.******

_Black candles light, white sage burns and incense fills the air._

_The cauldron sighs in response to his forbidden prayer._

_He mixes blood with gravedust and as the potion warms_

_He leans and watches closely the images it forms._

_Upon the surface of the blood, behind the veils of time,_

_Three signs are revealed to him, smelling of salt and thyme._

_First comes the Lavrys; then the Bull. The mist is now bright._

_From the dark center of the world and from the womb of night_

_The Serpent hisses at the myst, lashing its venom tongue._

_Another tales then begins from when the world was young_.

~*~

All has perished.

Everything is now dust, dust and ashes and broken walls. Where once the flute and the drum praised our Lady, now only the whisper of the wind laments the passing of the Old Ways.

Why am I here, sorcerer? Would you risk the wrath of my Mistress, puny man? Do you believe that your magic and the corpse you call Master can shield you from Her anger? Then think again. My Mistress has ruled the Underworld for countless aeons before your gender ever dared to raise their eyes in worship.

I was young when I was first taken into Her Temple. I still remember the slave decorating the walls of my father's throne room on that day, drawing on the walls frail lilies and graceful dolphins. But then all other thoughts vanished from my mind when I found myself in Her presence.

My Lady carried the lavrys in one hand and the snake in the other, letting it curl around her waist and thighs in gentle, loving strokes. And the White Bull bowed his head before Her, bending his neck for Her lips or Her axe. But this form of Hers was not known outside Her Inner Sanctum, for men like my father would object to her sovereignty. The world was changing and Her ways were fading in the minds of Men.

But I knew. I slept with the little holy snakes in my arms, letting them share their poison with me, biting me softly and granting me dreams of the past and the future. And I dreamt of fire and death. I saw my brother slain and my hands smeared with his blood. And I saw my death at the hands of a man who came riding the bull. With a face like the Sun he crossed the sea and loved me, like the White Bull had once loved my mother.

And I always woke up screaming.

Until the ship with the black sails came. When he set foot on the land, I thought that my heart would break. I fell in bed that night dreading that I would never see the next morning, for the Lady would claim me during the night.

And She did, but in a way I had least expected. The man of my dreams had come as his people's champion to fight my brother and end my father's dominion over their lands and their seas. Ah, my brother… Many called him a monster, for he followed Her ways. And when he wore the ritual mask, he truly changed. Under Her grace, he transformed, embodying the essence of Her divine consort. Dwelling in the depths of the Sanctum, it was his duty to perform the ritual sacrifices. 

But his time was over. The Lady had turned Her face away and now shone upon the outlander. He too bore the mark of the Sea Bull, of the ivory foam that rides the waves and caresses the shores of my island. She came to me in a dream of venom and spoke with Her forked tongue of her wishes. My heart bled as if bitten from a serpent, shedding dark, clotted blood. But I was bound to do Her bidding.

I went to him under thunder and lightning, fearing that my heart would stop. Oblivious fool, he thought that he seduced me. But my skin was perfumed with Her tears and my braids were oiled with Her secret charms. He embraced me and loved me in his crude, northern way, mistaking my whispers as sighs of pleasure. In truth I detested his touch and felt sick by his kisses. My whispers were the ancient chants and invocations of the Sacred Marriage, binding us together under Her grace as Her mortal form and Her consort. 

The Goddess had chosen.

When he stepped out of the labyrinth with my brother's blood on his hands, I knew that my fate was sealed. For my father, I was a traitor. For my lover, I was the means of an easy victory. And for my Lady I was the instrument of Her revenge against a King who had denied Her rightful rule. But still She protected me. I sailed with my lover for his homeland.

As I watched the shores of my island fading in the distance, it felt as if everything was dead; as if I was dead. I prayed that it was all a dream from which I would soon awake, a spell from which I would soon be released. But it was not. My body felt lighter than the air, floating among the clouds, among the lost souls that Acheron had denied. And although I knew that I had loyally followed Her bidding, the blood of my brother still burned my hands.

I was left behind on an island on the way. I was left behind while asleep, when I traveled in my dreams through space, high above the bloodstained soil and the burdens of my heart. I walked the astral realms of the Goddess in search of my lost purity, among the many faces of Her lunar light and the laughter of Her stars. When I woke, my lover was gone. 

And another had taken his place.

I stared into his brown eyes and he smiled. Leaning closer to kiss me, I felt the scent of aged wine and ripe grapes in his breath. My heart sang in joy and he chuckled, filling me with his childish carelessness.

My Goddess was kind. Insane, perhaps. Capricious, definitely. But She was also kind.

I found my lost innocence in the sparkling richness of the wine and the careless joy of music. He was of the earth and of mirth and of the warm, freshly baked bread. He was of the little things that really matter, like a wreath of ivy. And I forsake everything I had once been to follow him to the woods and celebrate Her grace with wine and flesh and laughter. But before running among the trees, I took my circlet off and tossed to the heavens, as my last offering. It spun and it circled and it nested in the starlit skies, becoming a Crown of stars, residing eternally at the North.

Nothing much is left now, necromancer. My father is nothing more than a name and my brother only the myth of an inhuman monster. My story, a folktale for children. My home, the temples are all gone but a few walls. Even Her memory has faded under the sword of other, younger gods. 

Ashes and dust, necromancer. The beauty, the wealth, the songs and the glory of my father's court and my Goddess' temple have all perished. 

Tell me, sorcerer, isn't it strange?

As if untouched by time, only these have survived the ages: the drawings of a slave on the palace walls. Not my father's crown or my brother's mask, but a slave's frescoes.

_The lilies and the dolphins_.


End file.
